Wandering Child
by Sapphire Warrioress
Summary: My Digory had a soul, a mind and a destiny as strange and adventurous as his name.
1. Chapter 1 At Journey's End

I cannot believe it has only been a few hours since my son and I began this journey, because it feels as if I've been traveling for eternity.

A dozen times I have awakened from a fitful sleep, only to have Digory tell me that we haven't arrived yet.

He sleeps now in the opposite corner, worn out from anxiety, excitement and the long journey.

Wearily I sigh and shift my position, knowing that I will have little comfort until we reach our destination.

It was so kind of my brother Andrew to offer to take us in, though I expect he was swayed to that decision by Letty.

He might be the master of the house, but I know that it is Letty who rules the servants with a strict hand, and accepts no nonsense from my strange absent minded brother.

At my side Digory stirs and I reach out to lovingly smooth his dark unruly hair and whisper gentle words of reassurance.

Since my husband's departure for India, my boy has been so brave, a true friend and source of strength as this accursed illness tightens its grip.

Throughout the countless visits by physicians, he was always ordered from the room, knowing that as soon as they left I would ask him to return so we might share this sorrow together.

I am tired of their useless words of comfort, of the looks of pity they cast my son when they think I am not looking.

I want to rage against the illness which is sapping my strength; I wish it had a physical form so that I could find a way to break its power over my life.

But such thoughts are useless, for this is a world where magic lives on only in stories.

Still I want to reject these doctors' hopeful platitudes and medicines which are supposed to restore my strength.

But I already know the truth. I have been aware of it for some time, of that subtle decline of energy, of nights spent in pain and fever; all tell me that I am close to taking my final journey.

Digory also knows. I didn't even try to conceal the truth from him, and yet he spoke before I could tell him. Sometimes I look at my boy and marvel at his quiet strength, at that look of solemnity and great wisdom I sometimes glimpse in his eyes.

He will be great one day. I know it.

Like his father he was born to pursue knowledge, to fight for those in need, and give strength to those who falter.

Ah my George chose our son's name well.

Digory.

Such a strange foreign name, many friends and relatives comment, even people I've never met cast my boy an odd look when he tells them his name.

And always I gaze coolly back at every one, challenging them to say anything which could hurt my brave boy.

At first he didn't understand those quick furtive and puzzled glances, until George and I took him aside and explained the origin of his name.

Digory, one who wanders. A name of strength and mystery. Yes George chose our boy's name well, for even at this tender age I see the truth of his name reflected in his eyes. His is a wandering spirit, one always eager to discover and explore new things.

His imagination is vivid, and his thirst for knowledge and stories is insatiable, so much so that his teachers find it hard to keep him interested.

The cab turns a corner sharply, and automatically Digory reaches out to clutch my hand in reassurance and comfort.

"Not far now mother," his young voice is confident and firm. "I can see the house; it's just past that lamppost there."

I offer my boy a grateful smile and gather what strength I still possess, knowing that even the short journey from the cab to my room will be exhausting.

Two minutes later we arrive, to the sound of Letty's brisk welcome and sharp orders for the servants to help with our luggage.

We are led to our rooms, and I am glad to see that Digory has been given one which is next door to me.

Andrew does not appear to greet us, but then I did not expect him to come and welcome us to his home.

Letty murmurs a feeble excuse about his being preoccupied with work, and I hasten to reassure her that it doesn't matter.

For the first time in weeks a warm smile brightens my pale features, born of the comforting knowledge that some things never change despite the passage of years and the relentless grasp of sickness.

For I know that even now, my strange brother will no doubt be pouring over some obscure ancient text by candlelight.

If only he would take an interest in Digory, he could learn so much from his uncle, who was always an eager and willing student.

Wearily I allow the maid Matilda to help unpack my belongings and assist me to undress and climb into bed.

A light meal is brought, and I struggle to finish the bowl of rich broth and a slice of fresh bread.

Digory sits beside me, contentedly devouring his heavier fare of roasted chicken, potatoes and vegetables.

Silence reigns save for the crackling of the log fire and the clatter of cutlery, but it is a quiet where no words need be spoken. It is enough that we are here at last, together, and are clinging to the hope that the doctors here may be able to offer some advice or cure to restore my health.

The trays removed, Digory looks up at me hopefully, and I know what he is about to ask.

"Mother, do you feel well enough to tell me a story?" How I want to say yes, to say that I have the strength and endurance of Scheherazade and will tell him a thousand tales.

But the journey has exhausted me and so I reluctantly answer.

"Not tonight Digory, I'm too tired from our journey. Perhaps tomorrow, if I'm feeling stronger."

He expects that answer, struggles to suppress his disappointment, and yet I glimpse it in those dark eyes as he bends to kiss me goodnight.

He closes the door softly and I reach to put out the candle at my bedside.

My final thoughts before sleep claims me are of George, a prayer that he may soon return home, and that I will be granted a few more precious years with the two people God has given me to love.

_Note from the authoress: At the moment my favorite of Lewis's Chronicles to write about is The Magician's Nephew._

_We don't know much about Digory's mother, so I thought I'd write this short story from her perspective._

_Digory will also have a chapter or two, as I'll cover important scenes involving him and his mother, some from the book, others from my imagination._

_This story was inspired by the excellent radio adaptation of The Magician's Nephew done by Focus On The Family Radio Theatre._

_If you haven't heard those productions of the Narnia Chronicles they are amazing._

_The title for this story comes from the awesome musical Phantom of The Opera. Also I looked up the name Digory, and found that it meant the lost one or one who goes astray._

_I hope you enjoyed this first chapter._

_Thanks for reading._


	2. Chapter 2 Tales of Wonder

The days blend together into an endless cycle of visits from physicians, as they try remedies which do nothing but cast me into drugged oblivion.

To me that is the worst torture of all. To know what it is to sleep long and softly, recalling how I would awaken every morning refreshed in mind and body, those are now nothing but sweet illusive memories consigned to the deepest reaches of my mind.

I long for the return of health, so that I might share in Digory's life, and welcome my George back to his homeland with the joy and passion I once possessed.

Instead I am bound to this bed, captive to the lethargy these drugs induce, the numbing of thoughts and the ever present lassitude which will not relinquish its grasp upon my body and mind.

Faces come and go. Letty's so kind and anxious, the grave troubled physicians, and once my brother even comes to look at me in shock and sorrow.

Matilda comes often, bringing dishes meant to tempt my appetite to return to what it once was. With gentle words of encouragement she offers me rich broths, and an assortment of food invalids are accustomed to eating.

I cannot bring myself to partake of it eagerly, for the memory of filling delicious food is still fresh in my mind, and I automatically refuse to take more than I need to keep me strong enough to summon the strength to fight.

Digory is my constant companion. In vain do I urge him to go outside, to find a friend to play with and enjoy the days of his summer holidays.

I know why he hesitates. It is because he knows I am slowly dying and he wants to spend as much time as possible with me before I am called home.

Often he will simply sit at my bedside with a book open on his lap, a sight which always brings a smile to my worn features. He looks so earnest and thoughtful as he devours books of stories, poetry and history, and I wonder if he will become a teacher in the future.

Certainly I can imagine him passing on his love of learning to others, kindling excitement for the written word and tales of myth and the history of many nations within eager pupils.

But worst of all are the nights, when I am alone and nothing happens to break the hours of darkness and solitude.

Always on those long nights I hold fast to the promises of our Lord, recalling many a text to comfort my spirit and keep me strong.

This night is like a hundred others, and yet something is different.

Footsteps. Yes, hurried footsteps rushing along the corridor to my room.

With an effort I raise myself on my pillows and look towards the door, wondering who on earth is coming to see me at this late hour.

The door is opened softly, and a pale worried face peers around it cautiously.

"Digory?" I stare at my boy in worry and astonishment. "What has happened? Are you all right?"

There is a candle upon the table at my bedside, amidst the assortment of phials and flasks whose contents has succeeded only in making me worse.

I gather my strength and light the tall wax tapir, beckoning my son to come near.

Even candlelight cannot soften the anxiety and fear he tries to overcome. And so I reach out to him, as I have done so often before, offering him comfort and the promise of safety within my arms.

Color returns to his face, and he perches on the end of the bed and offers me a measureless look of gratitude.

"Mother, I was wondering, would you- can I stay with you a few minutes?"

He lies next to me, as he did so often when he was small, and I reach out to draw him close. For a few minutes we are silent, simply taking joy in each others presence.

At last I venture to ask my question.

"Digory, what are you doing here, It must be gone eleven."

"Mother, I know I shouldn't have come, but I was passing the foot of the attic stairs when I heard an awful noise.

It sounded like Uncle Andrew, yelling at the top of his voice because something had frightened him."

Apprehension stirs within me, for I recall all too well my brother's fascination with magic, his firm belief that it existed and could be harnessed by a mortal's will.

But I had thought he gave up such ideas years ago,

"Digory, there's much about your Uncle which is mysterious, even as a little boy your age he was always an enigma.

But I remember looking up to him as an older brother, he always had the best stories to tell, and it was he who encouraged me to pursue my interest in languages.

If he had not encouraged and supported me, I'd never have learned to read and tell you the stories you love so much, for many would not consider a woman capable of such intense devotion to learning."

"Will you tell me a story now? I know you've been tired the past few days, but you did promise to tell me stories when we first came here."

I recall that promise, and force myself to ignore the lethargy and pain which is always present. No longer will I let this illness prevent me from being a mother to my boy.

Silence reigns for a few moments, as I turn over in my mind all the stories which I know Digory might find exciting.

Perhaps the tale of Odysseus?

Or of the young King Arthur?

Or a tale of far away India where his father now lives?

But somehow none of those options appeals to me, until I finally recollect the first story which I ever heard read in a foreign tongue, the story which kindled my interest in languages and the legends of many cultures.

"Ah Digory, I know you'll enjoy this one. Andrew often told it to me on stormy nights like this when I couldn't sleep."

And so on that dark night, I hold my boy close, and tell him dark stories of the north.

I speak of Loki, the crafty trickster god of Norse mythology, of how under duress he gave a promise to a giant to capture the goddess who gave all immortals eternal youth.

I speak of the cunning plan which the god of mischief designed, luring the goddess of spring into a clever trap and watching her carried off by the giant in the knowledge that he had condemned his divine brethren to a slow and lingering death.

He listens in excitement as I tell of Loki's confession to Odin, of how he promised to bring back Iðunn safe to Asgard, and the dangerous quest he undertook to retrieve her and the precious apples.

His eyes are alight with interest as I tell of Loki's thrilling journey, of his rescue of Iðunn and their pursuit by a giant skilled in the arts of war.

Few children would have listened with such rapped attention, for I tell the tale not in English, but in the tongue of that ancient poet who gave the world this legend.

After each phrase I pause to offer the translation, reveling in the fierce look of concentration which my boy's face assumes as I recount every thrilling detail. It was Andrew who encouraged my love of languages and legends, he who in fact bought me the book of Nordic poems which he spent much time in teaching me to read and speak in the original tongue.

It was then he told me of how the ancient bards would often recite their works from memory, and when I expressed an interest in following that tradition he offered me a smile of pride and affection that even now restores warmth to my exhausted spirit.

How I long for my older brother, as he was when still a young man passionate about learning and ever ready to share a story with his little sister.

Sometimes Digory reminds me so much of Andrew, and I wish that the two of them could bridge the gap between child and elderly uncle, for inside they are more alike than they could ever know.

I reach the last sentence of my tale, only to realize that my boy has fallen asleep worn out by a day spent playing outdoors.

I am reluctant to wake him, for every moment spent with my boy is a treasure all the more precious to me because I fear that death is close.

Any other mother would have reluctantly awoken their child, before sending him back to his room for what remained of the night.

But I have never conformed to the expected role of a wife and mother, a choice for which I know my George loves and respects me for following despite the derisive comments of some of our acquaintances.

And so I let my boy rest, and remain awake as long as I am able to enjoy his presence and the solid warmth of his hand beneath mine until I am forced to surrender to Morpheus.

_Note from the authoress: C. S. Lewis didn't give us much background about Digory's mother, which is one of the reasons I decided to write this story._

_Also considering what Uncle Andrew tells Digory about his magical studies, I'm assuming that knowledge of ancient languages and tales helped Andrew to figure out how to craft the rings and discover the source of the mysterious dust._

_Little is said about the relationship between Andrew and his sister, so I thought I'd have fun with that unexplored story as well._

_I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and would love to hear from my readers._

_To anyone reading my story In Darkness Born, I've just posted a new chapter to that Narnian tale._

_Thanks for reading._


	3. Chapter 3 The Dark Valkyrie

_Note from the authoress: Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter; I appreciate all _of_ your encouraging comments._

_Also I'd like to know if the formatting is better in this chapter, as someone recently pointed out that it was a bit choppy._

_This chapter departs somewhat from the events in Magician's Nephew; because I took a possible scenario Digory suggested and turned it into this segment of my story._

_As always feedback is welcome._

_Enjoy._

A refreshing summer breeze stirs the curtains at my open window, and the sound of children playing reaches my ears as I glance anxiously towards the door. Wistfully I turn my face so that I might feel the gentle caress of the wind as it toys with my long hair. How I wish I was well enough to venture outdoors, to sit in the garden with Digory and his friend from next door.

He has often spoken to me of Polly over the past few days, telling me of their grand adventures and how they have played at being smugglers. I laughed for the first time in weeks when Digory told me that story, for it reminded me of my own childhood when Andrew and I would play similar games of pretend. I smile now as I recall those idyllic times, when we were not just brother and sister, but two friends who loved to invent tales of wonder and magic beneath the large oak tree in our garden. We would play at being a valiant knight destined to rescue the captive princess, or a powerful sorceress determined to thwart the plans of a dark enchanter.

Even then, I was concerned about Andrew's love of the arcane. There was always a far away look in his eyes whenever he spoke of magic, an expression of such raw hunger and desire that I often felt in those moments that the brother I loved so dearly would be lost to me if he walked that uncertain path. I was right to fear, for as the years passed my brother withdrew from the family, devoting himself entirely to his studies and eventually becoming dangerously ill.

Those were dark days for me, for out of all our family I was the only one who responded to the doctor's urgent telegram. How well I recall that night where I received that message, of how George helped me to prepare for the journey by ordering the fastest horses to take me to the brother I still loved. I recall how George assisted me into the carriage, promising to care for our newborn son and giving his best wishes for Andrew's swift recovery.

I will never forget those six days full of anxiety and utter exhaustion, where I fought to keep my brother from taking his final journey. Of how in the deep hours of the night I spoke of those long ago days, and told him a hundred stories in the hope that he might be drawn back to this world by the sound of my voice. Often I would argue fiercely with the physicians who told me there was little hope, determined not to let Andrew go without doing all I could to help him recover.

Now as I gaze longingly out the window at the passers by, I wish that Andrew had returned my kindness and come for more than a brief visit. Two minutes is hardly adequate, especially when all he did was gaze at me in shocked disbelief. At least I have Digory, and Matilda to keep me company. They have been my shield against loneliness and despair, for I know that without them I would have long ago succumbed to death's inevitable embrace.

Once again I glance towards the door, wondering what is keeping my boy. He is never this late. Even after a day spent playing outdoors he always comes to me before sunset with stories of his day. Firmly I tell myself not to worry, that there could be a dozen explanations for his absence.

This day has been overcast like the rest of this week, so perhaps he is next door with Polly playing a game of hide and seek, or he may have taken himself off to the library downstairs to read in front of a roaring fire.

My anxious thoughts are cut short by the sound of a stifled cry overhead. Immediately I sit up in surprise, every muscle taut with fear. For I know that voice as well as if it were my own. It is Digory. For a moment I toy with the idea of getting up to investigate, but know that such thoughts are futile.

Reluctantly I set aside frustration and focus instead on where the noise originated. The top floor of the house is where the servants sleep, and where my brother has his study. And that room is directly above this one.

I listen scarcely daring to breathe, in the hope that I might learn what has happened. Silence reigns for a few moments, but is broken at last by footsteps overhead.

By now I have learned to recognize the rhythmic pacing of my brother, and the measured tread of servants who bring him his meals. These footsteps are completely different. They are confident and brisk, the steps of a person used to exercising authority. Curiosity stirs within me, as I try to puzzle out who could possibly be visiting my brother, and how I could have missed whoever it was passing my door.

Raised voices overhead reach my ears, and I recognize my brother's voice sharp with anxiety and an underlying note of fear.

Silence once again falls, and then my door is pushed open. I raise myself on my pillows, thinking that it is Digory come to see me. But what stands framed in the doorway is so unusual, so unlike any creature I have ever seen that I am momentarily rendered speechless. Fear such as I have never known courses through me, as I study the woman who will play a vital role in the destiny of my family.

She is tall and regal, with the baring of a queen and the confident arrogance of a goddess. She is dressed in costly robes, and at her throat flashes the dark fire of emeralds. Her head is crowned by a circlet of silver set with tiny crystals, indeed all that is missing is a scepter to make her look the part of an ancient queen of winter.

She surveys me with cool indifference, and I know what name I will give this extraordinary creature. Valkyrie, the name given to those maidens of Norse lore who chose the best from among the slain to take to Valhalla. She is like them, and yet she is not, for surely no Valkyrie would ever look upon me with such contempt and malice, with eyes that promised not a place at Odin's table but a slow and agonizing death.

I shudder as those cold eyes meet mine, for they are utterly devoid of warmth, or any emotion resembling joy, kindness or mercy. Yes she is a dark Valkyrie who lives for conquest and the satisfaction of blood spilt in rage and revenge.

She dismisses me with a casual shrug of indifference, and next moment I am alone wondering if the whole incident was naught but a twisted nightmare.

With a sigh of relief I sink back onto my pillows, my head spinning from these strange and inexplicable events. My mind is filled with horrible thoughts, of phrases from ancient stories and a great fear for my Digory. For whoever whatever that creature was, I know that it is Andrew who has brought her here. Somehow, he has found a way impossible though it may seem, to make the magic of stories a terrifying reality and open a way between our world and the place where this person dwells.

The sound of horses below attracts my attention, and I thank God that my bed is placed near the open window so that I might observe what is happening below. A cab stops at the front door, and I watch incredulously as Andrew assists the tall stranger into it and gives the driver his instructions. Moments later they are out of sight.

Wearily I draw the thick rugs about me in a vain attempt to keep warm, as every anxious thought and speculation becomes bound up in one desperate question

Andrew what have you done?


End file.
